


(Artistic) suicide in the trenches

by toxicfumesandpoisonkisses



Category: Babyshambles (Band), The Libertines
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Denial, Friendship, M/M, Post-Anthem For Doomed Youth, boys in a band, just typical Pete and Carl, writing songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5996926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toxicfumesandpoisonkisses/pseuds/toxicfumesandpoisonkisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This little drabble was inspired by the following paragraph from a 2008 article:</p><p>‘I miss the purity of what me and Pete had together when we started out. It would be great to have that back. Pete always used to say, “Imagine the songs we still have to write.” That thought is always with me.’ </p><p>Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/moslive/article-1031095/We-need-talk-Pete-Carl-Barat-tragedy-Doherty.html</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Artistic) suicide in the trenches

‘Carlos.’

He said his name in a way that could make hearts churn. It certainly made Carl’s churn, there was no doubt about that. He loved and hated when Peter did that, when he went in head-first, for the kill, claiming attention in such a blatantly obvious manner that would never suit a poet like him.

‘Yes, Peter?’ he replied somewhat annoyed, trying to mask the splinter of curiosity that so obviously lurked under his feigned irritation.

‘Let’s write a song, Carl. We haven’t written anything in a while.’

‘I don’t think I can, Pete. Not right now.’ He felt drained. Tied up, dried up, oh-so-tightly held by shackles of his own making.

‘Come on, Carl, it will be good. You know it will be.’

 _You’re a song of your own_ – was what coursed though Carl’s mind in the silence that followed Pete’s somewhat agonised plea. It was as if he _needed_ to write to breathe, needed to create just to feel alive. And Carl understood that. Carl understood that better than anyone, as he felt like that quite often during the days of the Old Regime. Not anymore, though. Not anymore.

‘What’s it gonna be about, then?’ he asked, somewhat afraid of the answer.

‘Hm?’ Pete looked at him as though he wasn’t present for the first part of the conversation. He did that sometimes. Skipped from one thought to the other, one idea to the other, kicking into oblivion whatever occupied his mind just a second ago.

‘The new song, Peter! What’s it gonna be about?’

‘Oh, that!’ Pete said with a little treachery in his eyes. ‘You, Carlos. What else do we write about these days, anyway?’ And the way he looked at Carl revealed all that he could never say.


End file.
